Beginning of the End - The 109th Annual Hunger Games
by BittersweetSympathy
Summary: Some will crash and burn. Others will emerge victorious. But either way, this moment, for them, will be marked as the Beginning of the End. Welcome to the 109th Annual Hunger Games! SYOT open.
1. Prologue

**ROSETTA THERN, 108** **th** **Hunger Games Victor**

Summer. Magical. Majestic.

Rosetta Thern stood on the tall podium, addressing the citizens of a collapsed and distraught district. A beautiful day; birds whistled and sang their melancholy song and the faint buzz of insects was incessantly potent over the deafening silence of the crowd standing motionless and hollow-eyed below the most recent Hunger Games victor.

Although she wore her usual smile – a smile she had perfected for so many years - the young girl found it hard to perform her strict recital with such a cheery countenance. It was like nothing had happened at all; although talking about what happened to the deceased tributes to their district made everything seem surreal, like a dream. The worst thing about it all was that she couldn't even remember their names and, most probably, she was the one who killed them.

Hearing about your child's death was one thing; hearing it from your child's murderer was another.

Two families stood on Rosetta's left and right. One side beheld the image of a small family who stood far apart from each other. Each – the mother, father and grandparent – stood with stony expressions and tired eyes. Obviously none of them had slept for days, no doubt having nightmares similar to Rosetta's own. Reliving their precious child's death over and over. Their clothes signified a poor background and the ancient grandmother already looked close to death. Their appearance at least gave the impression of helplessness, and yet… and yet…

Their eyes were locked in the direction of the raised figure speaking to them; eyes full of concept; eyes full of pity.

The other family was considerably larger, with the mother hunched over her four youngest children; the eldest stood next to the faded father, one holding a small bundle in their arms. Their faces were visibly wet from tears and now and then Rosetta heard the broken wailing of the mother: her baby, her poor baby. The eldest child stood staring blankly at the picture of the fallen tribute beyond Rosetta, raising his hand to wipe the uncontrollable tears from his eyes.

Rosetta could feel it though. There was no way she couldn't. She could feel the deep-rooted hatred and disgust district ten felt for her. Unless you were a citizen from the Capitol, Rosetta supposed people had every reason to feel that way. She couldn't help the way she was. Hell, even the career districts would turn their faces away from her after her performance this year. She gave a good show and for that she couldn't help but feel slightly satisfied, somehow.

Words flowed out of her mouth automatically. Her eyes were focused on the air in front of her, for she did not dare look at the masses below. The world as she knew it now was so primal, hunt or be hunted. She _had_ to survive, so she did. What turned into a thrill turned into a gross need, and uncontrollable hunger that frightened Rosetta. It _terrified_ her but it wasn't her fault. What she couldn't control was not her fault. At least, that was what she kept telling herself.

The district eight escort stood by her side, grinning as widely as she could and standing out grotesquely against the uniform peacekeepers and the dark-clothed citizens. Rosetta noted that they looked like a group of flies; flies that were very still; flies that were very quiet. They even looked like they had dressed for a funeral. Suitable, Rosetta thought, for her arrival indeed signified the confirmation of the two tributes' deaths as well as twenty-one others.

Rosetta closed her eyes for one second and almost immediately death after death after death plagued her memory. Bloodshed, bloodlust, bloodthirstiness; no wonder Capitolites called the 108th Hunger Games the most monumental in history. The mask came off; Rosetta shed her fur; Rosetta became the idol; the epitome of a victor; the hero of the Capitol, but the villain, the tyrant, the monster to everyone else in the world.

Yes, although Rosetta had the Capitol's support, she was truly alone.

Rosetta supposed that this was the sacrifice that needed to be made to ensure fame and wealth.

Obviously the speech was going on for too long. The escort lent over and whispered into her ear: "Hurry up darling. A speech this long is positively dull and you do not want to disappoint, do you?"

Of course Rosetta complied. It wasn't as though she was the Capitol's slave or anything, nothing like that, but she knew that in order to keep her celebrity status a reality she had to be obedient now and then. But she was not being controlled, despite what her family had told her before they had vowed to cast her out of their lives.

So, as she raised her arm to wave cheerfully to the crowd, she caught on to a low humming sound coming from, seemingly, nowhere. The humming, she discovered, stopping mid-air to listen to the strange anomaly, was in fact singing and Rosetta was taken aback to soon discover the entire crowd gradually join in to create a collective and unified symbol of solidarity and defiance.

They were singing. District ten was singing.

As peacekeepers escorted Rosetta away from the raising hum of music and more rushed into the crowd, firing bullets into small figures, even children who sang the loudest of them all, and tried in vain to shout and threaten over the chant of peace, Rosetta could not stop a small smile creeping onto her face.

For this would become to be known as the Beginning of the End.

 **Hello everyone! This is BittersweetSymphony here, or you can call me Symphony – I don't mind.**

 **I have been such a huge fan of SYOTs for a long time and decided to make my own, so here I am! I hope that you all enjoyed this prologue; please review and let me know what you think. Rosetta is definitely a character that will come up more frequently in this story. I'm sorry it was so short; I promise updates will be longer.**

 **If you would like to submit a tribute, please have a look on my profile. It is a bit of a long form and I hope that doesn't put anybody off, but I promise I will put a lot of effect in to make your tributes come to life. The deadline for submissions is the 1** **st** **June.**

 **I look forward to starting this adventure with you all. Thank you for reading – until next time!**


	2. Prologue II

**MONICA EINSBURG, Head Gamemaker**

"No."

Monica Einsburg pushed the file away from her with so much force it slid across the glass surface of the table and slipped from the edge. When it fell crashing to the ground, the Gamemaker who compiled the file emitted a loud gasp and dropped to his knees to collect the fallen and displaced paper. It had flown two or three metres away from where the file fell and currently the man was scrambling like a child to collect the remnants.

The Head Gamemaker threw her head in her hands to muffle and agonised scream. Four hours. Four hours they had all conversed to try and reach a decision. First the ideas were reasonable but impractical. Then the ideas were practical but unreasonable. But now? Now every idea uttered made Monica want to burst into loud and unrestrained tears; she felt fit to explode completely with the amount of anger she possessed. She watched as one of the Gamemakers frantically gathered his physical manifestation of crushed hope before she cast a glance to those still seated. One shy look at their idol was enough for them to know that they should not move a muscle; it was silent and the crowd seated around the table averted their eyes from the scene and from their Head Gamemaker, looking only at the floor with sombre interest.

The man had sat down, red in the face and chewing his lip. His eyes flittered towards Monica, then to his co-workers, then to the floor. After a prolonged period of absolute silence where no one said a single word, the moron raised his eyes. Their eyes met for just a moment, and as they did, Monica smiled.

And immediately the man had fallen to the ground to her right, grasping both her hands, tears streaming down his face, how sad, how pitiful. Snot ran down his nose and saliva frothed and spilled from his mouth as he made a desperate attempt at salvation. He bent his head and howled like a beast. Tears splashed onto Monica's hands but they remained as cold as stone, her face remained as emotionless as stone.

He was dragged out of the room kicking and screaming, crying and yelling as if his life depended on it; kicking and screaming, crying and yelling that he needed this job, how was he going to support his family now, he had seven kids? But you see, Monica had heard such protestations before and she didn't believe herself to be cold hearted, not in the least bit so. In the end, their inadequacy would ruin the Hunger Games; it wouldn't run as smoothly, see. She was not cold-hearted – she was respected – see how they all respected her now!

She dismissed them all from the room with a nod for she could not tolerate any more moronic thought. She needed peace and quiet in her own space, where she was sure the only thoughts present would be inspiring and far superior to that of another's. She couldn't, for the life of her, postulate even one successful idea towards this year's Hunger Games, which she promised the citizens of Panem as "the greatest they had ever seen". It was her fourth year as Head Gamemaker and she did not want to resign, not yet, not until she had really made her mark in history.

She yawned loudly and slowly, tilting her head back as she did so. Within eyesight behind her lay the filing cabinet full of what Monica liked to call "last-minute repairs". These files contained options to use only in case of emergency, full of the best and worst ideas ever given in over ninety-nine conferences.

The president was counting on Monica. Monica could not let the president down.

Standing up and opening the cabinet, Monica took a file and looked inside. She scanned over the page restlessly, for she had always disliked reading and she was growing impatient, and you wouldn't like her if she was impatient, for she would get sad, then she would get angry and then someone would mysteriously disappear. So her keen and childlike eyes scanned the contents of one of the files. And as soon as she read the words dancing on the paper, the corners of her lips curled into a smile. Her countenance, had anyone been in the room to witness it, bore a sinister intrigue that could easily have been more frightening than any of her actions, for it was a smile of secrecy.

It was hard being the Head Gamemaker, but Monica was not ordinary. Not in the least.

 **Another update? Before June? Sympathy, what is this?**

 **Yes, here is another update for you. A little short like before, but hopefully this chapter gave you a taste of our lovely Head Gamemaker for this year's Games. I think it's clear to say that I think you all are going to love to hate her. What are your first impressions? I would love to know.**

 **I am still accepting tributes! Thank you to all who have submitted and reviewed; I love reading your creations and have been thoroughly impressed with what I have seen so far. The deadline for applications is still the 1** **st** **June, although this may be changed if I don't receive suitable tributes before this date – please check my profile for updates.**

 **As I have said before, this is not first come, first served, so if a tribute has been submitted for the district you like, you can still submit for that district.**

 **I think that's everything! I hope you enjoyed this chapter; please review, if you can!**


	3. Chapter One: Propositions

_**Brenna O'Hare, District Two Female. Seventeen Years Old.**_

 _I remember it like it was yesterday._

 _The day when the Training Centre of District Two chose me as the volunteer for this year's Hunger Games. I think everyone was expecting it; even someone not remotely close to me could see that I have worked so hard since I was scouted to train there. And of course they knew I have always been ready; deep down I bet they are certain of my victory, even if such views are not openly expressed._

 _I wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead and begin to throw punches at the bag hanging before me once more. My body aches – I've been training since the early hours of the morning – but I persevere. The Training Centre is almost completely empty, save for a few trainers guarding the weapons and a couple of young orphans who aren't eligible for the Reaping or feel no need to go to the Justice Building until the very last minute. Everyone else was told that they could have the afternoon off because of the Reaping, to find a place with a good view and even help the Mayor with preparations. I guess they can relax; they aren't volunteering. I, on the other hand, cannot. Every second spent training is precious. Although, winning can't be that difficult for me anyway._

 _"Damn, Brenna! What did that punching bag ever do to you?"_

 _The voice coming from behind me is so familiar that I don't need to turn around. I smile a little but continue my methodical process of_ _jab, jab, jab, kick, jab, jab, jab._

 _"Hi, Millie."_

 _"'Hi Millie'? That's all your best friend gets from you?_ _Come on…_ _I want to know how the female volunteer is feeling on Reaping day!" As she says this, Millie grabs my balled fist as I am about to hit the bag. I hear the impact of the forceful blow and consider how much it must hurt but, in true Millie fashion, she smiles insouciantly. Therefore I have no choice but to face her and unravel the boxing wrap from my hands as I listen to her. Not that I mind._

 _Emily Inverness, although she likes to be known as Millie, is most definitely one of the only people I will miss when I am away in the Capitol. As she stands there chattering animatedly, I study her for a few moments and wonder how the hell this girl came to be my biggest rival as well as one of my closest and most valued allies. Looking at her now, you never would have thought that she was one of the most competent trainees in the district. And she still is; she'll probably get picked as the female volunteer for next year's games. And then we'll have two victors in a row. We've often fantasised about that and I know that Millie is as eager as I am to bring glory to District Two._

 _Millie asks me how I'm feeling. After clearing up my work space, we both step outside into the streaming sunlight and the hum of excited conversation. Only on Reaping day are so many people outside; everywhere I can see is crowded with people; some sitting on the stones talking to one another, others looking to start a fight, but deciding against it when seeing the impenatable gaze of the many Peacekeepers stalking the premises. Some girls eye me up with contempt. These are the girls who wanted to volunteer but were not chosen. I'm not intimidated – it takes a lot more than that to intimidate me – they could volunteer if they really wanted to, but their actions would be at the cost of ensuring the condemnation of the rest of their family by the Training Centre and thus allowing none of their family to have the opportunity the train there. So hardly anyone has volunteered apart from the one who has been chosen to do so every year. Other girls beam at me and offer their congratulations and good luck chants as I walk past and Millie graciously accepts their kind words on my behalf; I just incline my head towards them. I've never been one for needless conversation; Millie, of course, is the exception._

 _"I'm feeling just as I should be, Millie." By some freak accident, I catch the eye of the male volunteer this year. It's as we walk by a large, imposing building I can only assume to be his home; instinctively, I look towards one of the windows and he is there, watching me walk by. We stare at each other. I know him by name, not by acquaintance, for it is impossible for anyone to not know him. Sylvester Nikolai Gunn, the son of a wealthy investor and his notoriously scheming wife. His eyes feel like they see straight through me and his expression, which I can see quite clearly through the gleaming glass pane, is one of perfect indifference. Yet he studies me as though I am not a person, but an object, his keen eyes scrutinising my every move. I wonder why he isn't on his way to Reaping. Perhaps being wealthy makes one lazy. I am forced to break eye contact first and carry on walking to the Justice Building, taking in every glare and every murmur._

 _"So, have you got a speech planned?" Millie says, jabbing me in the shoulder to get my attention, "Are you going for the patriotic motivational speaker or the confident badass?" Her eyes light up as she imagines the situation unfolding, "or, or!" She leans to whisper in my ear, "The selfless teenager who wants to win for her simply_ _amazing_ _friend Millie?"_

 _I allow myself to laugh a little. I never have seen any value in living in district two, per say; I just considered it to be a place to live in with slight advantages and disadvantages, so patriotism is not likely. I also have always despised those who believe themselves to be more important than they are and come across as arrogant and self-righteous, so adopting that angle would just be hypocrisy. Although the last suggestion is somewhat true, I sure as hell will not be caught dead making a speech so corny and predictable. "I don't know," I say, resuming my air of nonchalance, "I was just going to go up there and say my name."_

 _Millie screws up her face into a little pout and punches my shoulder again, harder than before. "But that's so_ _boring."_ _She sighs and shakes her head. "Well, you better make your victory speech the best one ever, okay?"_

 _Smiling at her, I concede, "Okay, sure."_

 _We walk on in silence, paying attention to conversations and events around us. A loud crash suddenly catches our attention. Grabbing my wrist, Millie drags me forward in the pursuit of finding the source. It is not too far and we reach it in no time._

 _We stand in front of a small store. I know it well, for those at the Orphanage used to visit regularly. It is a store that sells cookware – pots, pans, plates, etc. Products are only made from tin or copper, covered in rust and some are even broken. The family that runs the store also live there. The sound we had heard seems to have come from the clatter of such cookware; it lies all over the pavement, as though someone has entered to store and completely turned it inside out. Upon closer inspection, that seems to be exactly what has happened._

 _We edge closer and peer over the heads of a growing crowd. A middle aged man and his wife have just been hauled to the ground and forced to their knees. The woman is screaming and sobbing and one of the Peacekeepers grabs her by the hair and pushes her face to the pavement. The man looks over at his wife, the owner of the store, but does nothing to resist as another Peacekeeper handcuffs them both. He tries the clam the woman down, but nothing can mute her unintelligible screeches. Peacekeepers bring out two crying children, twins, no older than three years old. By this point the mother has lost it completely. She roars, pushing against her captor to stand up. She is slapped to the ground and kicked – once, twice, three times. Then she doesn't move again._

 _Whether she's dead or unconscious, none of us really care. We don't think of it as we turn from the sight. I catch a few words: "caught", "here", "rebels"._

 _A short time passes until we are finally in sight of the Justice Building of District Two. Even now as I look at it, I am in awe of its splendour and capitvating beauty. It is the pride of our district, where future victors start their Hunger Games journey. It is an hour to go until the Reaping so many people are here already; the queue for registration is long. Above the great door of the Building are the words "District Two's Hall of Justice" and, below it, the emblem of my district: District Two, Masonry. One each side are rich, crimson flags portraying the symbol of the Capitol, heavily standing out against the dull grey stone of the building itself. Blood is taken without much hassle; I see some girls flinch when the needle pricks their skin, and I can't help rolling my eyes; those girls are not the sort of tributes our district would want to represent us in the Hunger Games._

 _Millie, also being seventeen, walks with me as we try to find a good spot in sight of the stage. I see the district escort, Litcia Winkle, on stage talking to the Mayor. As I begin to wish for her to not notice me, notice me is exactly what she does. She gasps happily, and waves extravagantly, as though we have been best friends for years. I turn my head and look away. Not because of embarrassment but out of sheer disbelief that someone could be so brazen. She must know who the volunteers are, then, and must wish to be on good terms with them. Millie takes the opportunity to wave cheerfully back; she has always liked Litcia, who has been our escort for three years now. The reasons for such strong affection, especially towards an ignorant Capitolite, are entirely unknown to me. But such feelings are not of an inconvenience to anyone so I guess the interaction is, on a whole, harmless._

 _I glance across from me to try and see Sylvester in the crowd somewhere. Sure enough, I see him approach slowly and languidly and take a place at the back of the seventeen year old male section of the crowd, for most people have already arrived. In fact, he is one of the last to turn up. When people try to converse with him, I see him speak only one or two words before retiring back into his state of self-reflection. He watches what is happening on the stage with sullen patience. It is though the other people do not exist to him._

 _"What are you looking at?" Millie asks, popping her head over my shoulder and scanning the crowd._

 _I focus my attention on the speech the Mayor is making, trying to push thoughts of my district partner out of my head. I am sure I will find out his character soon enough anyway. He cannot be as intimidating as he seems. "It's nothing."_

 _Our Mayor is a menacing man of forty and a victor of a previous Games, won when only fifteen. He is liked amongst the majority of the district and has been a key advocate in the "anti-rebellion" movement. He prides himself in acknowledging that it is he who asked the Capitol for an expansion of the amount of Peacekeepers situated in District Two. Because of him, the District is more protected against heresy. His huge ego only fuels his love for the district and such feelings towards it are strongly evident in the speech he gives. He pauses to allow for cheers and shouts of motivation. His tall, well-built frame swells at the sight of his district so pumped up, so ready for the Games. He relishes his speech as long as possible until even he cannot ignore Litcia's overpowering irritation and he introduces her, trying to mask his reluctance with an air of glorification towards her._

 _I am somewhat amused to see that Litcia immediately takes the bait and blushes madly at the amount of cheers encouraged by such an introduction. "Oh stop it, now." She says coyly; blatantly asking the crowd for more love, more admiration. I bet she was unloved as a child, to require such a vast amount of verification. As the crowd dies down, she takes a moment to recollect herself. "Hello there, District Two! I am so excited to be back here for the third year! Who is excited for this year's_ _Hunger Games?"_

 _The crowd erupts again. I hear wolf-whistles from the boys and chants of support from my own sex. All the while Litcia is loving it and doesn't even hush the crowd to announce the historical background of the Games. Instead, the television, located above the words inscribed on the Justice Building, flashes on, and we know to hush immediately. No matter how many times we have heard it before, we listen with intrigue and interest; some listen with grim respect. We know the defeat of the rebellion completely; so much, it has ingrained in our memories. While Millie, in the minority, yawns loudly and decides to daydream, I listen to the speech eagerly and watch footage from the rebellion. Any sort of information regarding the Games is important to me; I believe that, as a citizen of District Two, caring about such topics is a given._

 _"A long time ago. Our great and powerful nation, our Panem was split apart. The Capitol and the thirteen districts engaged in a war that ended many lives and caused great, great suffering." The voiceover cuts through the silence like a knife. We are instantly hit with shame; shame felt on behalf of our ancestors who caused such dishonour to our country. "So, the Capitol was forced to defeat the districts. Our mighty Capitol did, of course, and District Thirteen was destroyed in the process. To avoid such pain, such suffering… The Hunger Games were created, where each of the twelve districts of Panem must offer a boy and girl to fight to the death, aged 12 to 18. Let us wish for a country free from violence. May the odds be ever in your favour."_

 _As the screen fades to black, the entire district is silent. Some people are crying silently; others look and smile determinedly at the escort, who wipes tears from her eyes herself. However, she recollects herself, and clears her throat._

 _"Let's make this year's Hunger Games the best to remember. I wish the best of luck to both the tributes! Let's pick the girl first, shall we?" Litcia reaches her hands into the glass bowl that contains all of our names. I watch as she grabs a piece of paper. Even though the name is needlessly called, she says it anyway: "Our female tribute is Jelena Andes! Jelena Andes would you like to come up here, lil' missy?"_

 _By this point I have raised my hand and say the words that seal my path: "I volunteer."_

 _Litcia squeals with delight and it isn't long before I am standing next to her. She thrusts the microphone so close to my face that I push it away slightly and step away from her, for she allows me little room to move. She asks for my name, although I don't need to say it. I suppose the Capitol need to know their victor, so I say it as clearly and calmly as can be._

 _"Brenna O'Hare."_

 _"There you have it, District Two! Your female tribute! Give it up for Brenna!"_

 _And they all cheer._

 _ **Sirena "Sire" Locket, District Four Female. Seventeen Years Old.**_

The eyes of a small bird flutter to meet my own as it perches in its nest several metres above the ground. Beady pupils shake as though communicating its fear. I reach out a hand, gently, to touch it, to stroke its wings, but it flies away before I can get close.

I click my tongue and adjust my weight so I can grasp the closest branch to me. Finding another thick branch to place my foot (bare and scratched, not that I mind that at all) I begin to crawl down the giant oak that stands amongst a plethora of trees of the same kind; none of them as beautiful as the one I have chosen to climb. Right on the edge of the district, beyond the barrier that separates us prisoners from the unexplored realm beyond, away from sight, away from the mundane.

I move quickly and nimbly; not one branch breaks from my weight; I have been climbing for a while now – an expert tree-climber, you might say. When I look up at the tree that looms over me, a dome of leaves and twigs, I suddenly see it turn grey and lose its luminously that once impulsively compelled me to climb it in the first place. Where before I could only see its beauty, now I could only see its ordinariness. I turn away from it and take a moment to look at Troy, who has just jumped clumsily from a tree himself. He stumbles forward and I grab his shoulders to keep him from falling.

"Thanks." My brother is only thirteen, with a lot to learn about the art of being an explorer. He has the enthusiasm though and, in all honestly, is the best spy I know. Probably this is due to him being my shadow when I take trips and never failing to help out in some way when I'm not at school. His face turns red and his turns away, sucking his lip in a pout; he's embarrassed to have messed up in front of his older sister. "Did you find anything?"

I rustle his hair playfully; he swats my hand away but cannot conceal his small smile. I shake my head, picking up my bag from the grass and checking everything is still stuffed chaotically inside. Yep, all still there: a small notebook and pencil "borrowed" from mother, old binoculars found in an abandoned shed not seven months ago, a cracked compass, not working, found at the bottom of a lake to the south of the district, etc. etc. I raise a hand to my chest and feel the chain that hangs around my neck; good, that's still there too.

Troy stares at me with intent, his eyes wide and ready for good news. He's expecting me to flourish some relic of the past or say that I saw something from the leaves of the tree. I consider refraining from assuring his doubts but when he sees the empty hands and hesitant gaze, nothing needs to be said.

"What about the lake again? The old house by the barrier, round the corner? Or that cave – I really liked that one, and I really think they'll be something in there, I just know it!" I wait until he has gathered his bag, checked it, and has fallen into step beside me. It's a beautiful day; the sun beating down rays warmth on our frames while the cool mid-summer breeze prevents us from burning to death.

"Troy, I've checked those places. There is nothing else to be found." I try not to sound condescending, but I need to be firm. He's not buying it though, for he is just as intelligent as I, if not more so than I was at his age.

"What about the garbage dump? I know it smells and all but-"

I stop, turning to face him again. I see him racking his brain to find where he can prove me wrong. The fact remains that he cannot and I wish that it were not the case; I have scoured every inch of District Four since I was ten, have left no stone unturned for all I know. I have collected all of the treasures that district four has to offer, completely plundered it. I clutch his shoulder and lean forward in a whisper, "Well maybe you can let me know if you find anything I haven't, lit-tle bro-ther?" I drag out the words teasingly but I mean them; I begin to walk again, but Troy holds me back.

"What the hell – sorry, heck – does that mean? What do you mean, 'hadn't?' We'll just keep looking together, right?"

My eyes soften at his confusion. Unable to supress it any longer, I beam. Troy's blue eyes grow wide at the sight of my sparkling ones and the corner of his mouth twitches automatically in response to my outburst of joy. "I'm not going to explore District Four anymore. You'll have to do that on your own. And you'll be great on your own, I'm sure, and look in new places previously untouched; I'll be jealous!"

My younger brother's mouth drops open without constraint and I can tell what he's about to say, but he has no time to say it. Voices, low and muffled from distance, appear so suddenly that I jump and grab Troy's arm. He hears it too and we stand paralysed for a moment, trying to decipher who's speaking and, perhaps more importantly, where the noise is coming from. Have we imagined it? With sleepless nights such a notion may not be impossible; we had thought we had heard or seen trouble and then found out otherwise. Luckily we are shielded by the army of oaks, protecting us with its natural barrier. Unfortunately, leaves will do nothing to protect you against bullets; people had been shot for trespassing before.

Shall we run or stay? Is it Peacekeepers? Most likely; who else would come out here besides us? Is it a Peacekeeper we know? If so, perhaps we should run; I've gotten away with flattery and excuse so many times they may have caught on by now. If it is a new Peacekeeper, we may have a chance, for they will not know us. All they will see is an innocent seventeen year old girl finding her brother after he had run away from the security and comfort of their family home.

A figure appears; we duck around the tree trunk; it is too late.

"Hands in the air!" The Peacekeeper shouts at us, their voice too gruff and low to be feminine. Troy glances at me. We don't need to say anything, because we have done this too many times before.

Time to play to his sympathy.

We step out from behind the tree, our hands raised. Troy looks to the ground, shrinking away from the figure that approaches us slowly with a gun pointed to fire in his hands while I widen my eyes and tremble. I tremble from andrenaline; I love it when we get caught; this makes things so much more exciting; but the shaking adds to the "frightened teenager" façade. We can't see the Peacekeeper's face, which is extremely frustrating, as physiognomy can betray a person's true character if studied well; you can know how to manipulate their emotions thus. But, like I said, I can't see his face; damn shame, but I guess it makes more of a challenge.

He orders us to present our ID cards. I cannot help but raise an eyebrow ever so slightly at the command; IDs don't matter if we are _technically_ outside of District Four; we are trespassing, no doubt. We hand them over regardless, and he studies them in silence. No sudden outburst of recognition means that he is a stranger. Now to gamble: does he have a heart or do we have to flee?

"What are you doing rambling on forbidden grounds, Sirena Locket and Troy Locket of District Four?"

As if on cue, tears rush to my eyes and spill out, gushing down my cheeks passionately and fast. If I could see the Peacekeeper's face, there would be no doubt that he would look shocked. Troy still keeps his gaze fixed to the ground because if he looks at the figure pointing a gun at our heads, he will find it hard to supress a laugh. Troy, after all, is even rasher, even more dauntless, than I. I begin to soliloquise.

"Please forgive us, Mr Peacekeeper – my brother had run away from home and I had to find him before the Reaping. I really wanted to find him and I didn't notice where I was going; if I did, I would have asked for help." I make sure to look at him as pleadingly as I can muster; he remains as cold and motionless as a stone. "We are really sorry, sir – I won't let him run off again. Do you have a brother, sir?"

The question evidently throws the Peacekeeper off guard, who, up until now, had been standing resolute. He stirs and moves his head to look at Troy. Troy then deals the final blow; he looks up at the man before him with a face so hopeless and so full of despair that it even makes my own heart wrench painfully in my chest. There is a pause before the figure hands our IDs back stiffly, "This is your warning. If I see you trespassing again, you will be severely punished. Now get to the Reaping."

So we do. As soon as the Peacekeeper is out of earshot, we laugh with absolute glee; I on such a high. Troy frantically runs slightly ahead of me, repeating the words: "I can't believe we did that! I can't believe we got away with it, Sire!"

I can believe it. My brother and I can do anything.

We slow down to a walk as we approach the fence. Looking around, we creep underneath it and carry on as normal. Our stomachs hurt from all the laughing; my heart is racing faster than it has ever done before. We have returned just in time for the Reaping; we fall into step with hundreds of other kids. Some walk with their friends, others with their families. Some are crying already, others have expressionless faces. Just around the corner, there will be a line to register and then we will stand in a crowd, listen to the Mayor and then the escort of District Four, and then watch the tributes get Reaped. I have always listened carefully to every word the escort utters and study each tributes face and actions when they are announced as reaped. Although not everyone volunteers every year, I always find those that do more interesting and looking at them always stirs up one, singular emotion inside me; jealousy.

This feeling has built up over the years. It never used to be as bad as it is presently, for I was perfectly content within the confines of District Four, where there were still so many hidden treasures to find. Now, however, I feel like there is nothing left to be found, or rather, nothing to be found that interests me. Perhaps I don't want to look anymore. Boredom has eaten its way into skin and bones since I turned thirteen. Is this what growing up is? Are my desires selfish? I see Troy's smile has faded into a sombre grimace as he also looks at the faces around him. I take his hand and squeeze it tight. No, they are not. Imagine the life my parents and Troy could live – how better their life would be!

And mine.

We separate, sharing a hug before Troy moves silently to the line of boys. "I love you, ok?" I whisper so only he can hear.

"I know." He responds, even though he doesn't have to.

Getting to the front of the line, I present my finger without being asked. The Peacekeeper grabs my wrist, wrenching me forward, and cuts by finger with the needle. Transfixed, I stare at the sphere of red that swells upwards to the sun. He then pushes my hand away and I stumble to the pool of potential tributes.

We still have an hour to go before the Reaping, but everyone knows to arrive in time to get registered and avoid risk of punishment. Four people mount the stage to prepare it; the Reaping bowls, the microphone (sometimes creating an ear-piercing screech of white noise), the projector. Sheets of fabrics hang on each side of the Justice Building – one depicting the District Four symbol, with the fish easily recognisable, the other depicting the symbol of Panem's Capitol. I see Troy automatically move to stand near the front of the sea of nameless faces, where the thirteen year olds stand and I too move to nearer the back of the crowd. Although there are many people here already, by some twist of fate the first person I see is Dora. She has her back to me, watching the stage as it is set up.

I creep up behind her and place my hands on her shoulders. She jumps, spins around, and slaps my arm. "Hey! Don't scare me like that! A simple hello would have been nice."

I laugh and some of the girls stare at me like I'm some kind of abnormality. Some of them have red eyes, eyes swollen from anxious crying. These are the girls who have not chosen to train. If they are worried about being Reaped, they shouldn't really, for they might not be; people have been shortlisted as volunteers by the academy, so why are they crying? Not quite understanding, I smile kindly at them, but they turn away silently. More girls are herded in like cattle, mindlessly following each other and whispering to each other in hushed voices. I see more eager faces and recognise some of the girls from training. I feel confident; they don't have the skill or experience I have. And the trainers at the academy said that I could do it if I wanted to, which means I have absolutely nothing holding me back.

Well, apart from the other girls shortlisted, but I have my lucky charm. I toy it with my fingers.

After the stage is set, District Four's Mayor, Menian Daie, makes his speech. He smiles at us, but hidden beneath his smile I can see, quite clearly, traces of deep anguish. His voice is strained ever so slightly, as though he has to voice to rehearsed words out; his daughter Karie, who just turned nineteen and thus illegible to be reaped, sits in a chair to the side of the stage. Her face is grim; she glares daggers at the crowd. Her nostrils flare; she is disgusted by the parade. Her boyfriend was killed last year in the Games. He made it pretty far and was a favourite to win – I still remember him from the academy and how skilled he was with a bow and arrow – so it was a shock when he was brutally mutilated by this year's victor from District Eight. I think he and Karie were engaged to be married.

He finishes his speech with the words "good luck". His words, however, sound different – does he want us to flourish or does he pity us?

As soon as he leaves the stage the district escort replaces him. I have always been a fan of our district escort's appearance and personality; his eccentricity and almost overwhelming arrogance inspire me further to make it to the Capitol to see if they are all the same or this is just an act for the Hunger Games. I've forgotten his name, but I could never forget his face; tanned orange with spiky blue hair, always different shades each year. This time it is a light blue, the colour of the sky, coincidentally.

"Hello, District Four!" He yells, and we all clap politely and supportively. There are a few cheers and the escort feeds off the positive energy from the crowd. I clap too; Dora, I notice, does not. "Aren't you all looking lovely this year?" Again, applause, a few cheers. He pretends to become more sombre, but a light of eagerness flashes in his eyes for a moment. "Now let us be reminded of what has led us to the events of today; may us never forget the rebellion, the glory of the Capitol and the security of the great Panem…"

Dora stirs uncomfortably and looks away from the screen that now presents us with footage of the rebellion as well as a voiceover about Panem's history. I'm shocked to see others do the same; this is certainly something new. I nudge her, but she turns her head ever so slightly to look at me. I freeze, for the look on her face, for the briefest of seconds, is one of contempt. Then this look vanishes and is replaced with antipathy. Then she looks away.

I continue to stare in wonder until the screen fades to black. The district escort isnow picking the female tribute.

"The lovely, lovely, female tribute for the 109th Annual Hunger Games is – "

Two other girls shout "I volunteer!" simultaneously. One is eighteen, the other is my age and both I know from my training. But I have already begun to walk long before they even begin to drown out the name of the reaped girl. Dora doesn't even notice me go, but that's alright; she will understand why. I don't take the stairs, for that will take too long. I haul myself up to the stage with little effort and stand there beaming at the escort. I look around me; everything is dull and bland, apart from the district escort, who stands glowing and visibly impressed.

"I volunteer."

I see my mother and father in the crowd. While my mother looks pale, my father stands proud. He has always understood my reasons, my adventurous spirit.

My heart swells as I think: _I've made it! I've made it!_ The possibility of growth, of exploration, of development is open to me now and I intend to get it. Only one can make it out alive? That doesn't matter; I will be that one, because I was born to survive. My family was born to survive.

My brother will be happy with this decision. I know he will, one day.

 _ **Richard Musk, District Five Male. Fifteen Years Old.**_

As I step outside, I find that it is just as warm as inside - no, it's more than a couple of degrees warmer – and immediately my chances passing out from heat stroke increase. I turn back to where I have just come from, still clutching my wages in my fist. The coins are burning against the palm of my hand and already the paper notes are damp and stick a little to my skin. I find myself wishing that I was back inside the plant as, even when working and with heavy protective clothing on, I might stand a chance of being a little cooler. I shake my head at the thought. That would be idiotic. The Reaping, after all, is unavoidable, and if I don't go now, I won't get everything I need done before it starts.

I hear the door open and shut again behind me and immediately there is a small figure to my right, staring up at the sun as though wishing it to disappear behind a cloud; _something_ to help us cool down. My assistant clearly wishes to go back inside too, but he will not unless I make the step.

I look down at him, not condescendingly, but with the admiration a good friend might have of another. "Hey, Elon, you want to drop by my house before the Reaping?" I say, smiling as he nods and his eyes light up at the prospect.

Although only a year younger than me, Elon is something like a protégée, at least, that's what _he_ tells _me;_ I only like to consider him as one of my best friends who helps me out at the plant. His admiration for myself as well as my brother knows no limits, however, and I am continuously humbled with the amount of support and praise I regularly receive from him. I have tried to tell him to calm down a little, which he has done since our school years, but it seems his deep-rooted idolisation of me won't go away as quickly as I would like it to.

 _So,_ I think to myself as we begin the journey, carefully putting the money I have earnt away and out of sight of opportunists, _what do I need to do?_ Go and see my brother's a starting point. I wonder if he is available to talk or is out at Coriolanus 9 today. He might have been called at the last minute. Regardless, I'll try to find him, because although we didn't have to sign up for tesserae, thanks to three out the four members of the family earning enough money for a sustainable living, you never know, it is possible to be reaped even without the disadvantage. It has happened before. So I need to make sure I see him before I arrive at the Justice Building.

"I really hope Orion is there." Elon says, trying to look as indifferent as possible, but unable to hide the anticipation in his voice. It's enduring how a fourteen year old looks up so much to a boy just under half his own age and I think about making one of my infamous witty observations, but then I realise I look up to my younger brother as much as he does and so decide against it.

"Me too, Elon." I say. My thoughts turn to my family as we continue to walk. I consider how lucky I have been in comparison to other families; not just because we are fortunate enough to have good income, but because I have a family at all. Many children in District Five are orphaned from an early age and the number has only increased throughout the years due to disease, Peacekeeper raids and even accidents at power plants. Some children do not only lose their parents but their siblings too. They fall victim to the consequences of the Hunger Games, a harsh deterrent. That's not to say I do not see their value; punishment is necessary to help atone for the mistakes made leading up to and during the rebellion. Whether the Hunger Games are the best punishment, however, is up for debate.

My thoughts drift to my mother, a woman who only strives to achieve the best and will keep trying until she reaches perfection in everything she does. I wouldn't be surprised if I inherited my stubbornness from her somehow. And then there's my father, at my mother's side every step of the way, never failing to be supportive and determined to ensure the security of his family. They are great people, the best I know. It would be awful if one of their boys got reaped.

But, like I said before, if it happens, it happens.

We reach my house in less time than I had expected – we were walking slowly due to the heat. My house is nothing out of the ordinary, but we do live in a neighbourhood full of people that are better off than others; this is apparent from the look of the houses themselves. Our house is small, but still bigger than most, and we live as comfortably as we can in a district where we are constantly under surveillance; watched.

We enter through the kitchen and find that it's empty, save for plate and a cup on the table, most definitely belonging to Orion, who hardly ever clears up his mess. He's home then and probably in the garage. Elon fetches himself some water and I take a mental note to clean the house a little if I get back from the Reaping. I say _if_ because I'm not as deluded as others to believe that my safety is certain; I've always been a realistic person rather than an idealistic one.

We knock at the garage door and we are given permission to enter. When we do, my brother has his back to us and is hunched over several books. He doesn't acknowledge us; he seems to be incredibly focused on studying. However, that isn't rare for him. When not at the solar power plant, he is either making some new contraption or preparing to make one by studying about the processes involved.

"Hey. What are you doing?" Elon follows me to peer over his shoulder. As soon as we get too close, he shuts one of his books and glowers at us suspiciously. I rustle his hair; he cringes away, swatting at my hands. While he's distracted, I snatch the volume, and flick through its contents. Orion sighs in defeat and patiently waits for me to finish my inspection. "'Theoretical Nuclear and Particle Physics: Advanced'?" I grin. "I thought you had an internship at the _solar_ power plant – are you, perhaps, coming over to the dark side?" I frown at the sudden recognition: "Wait; is this _my_ book?"

Orion scoffs and, snatching the book back and laying it back out in front of him for future perusal, shakes his head. "No, I just wondered what sort of things you do in there. It's not that hard. I'm surprised." Typically, he ignores my other question.

I stifle the urge to laugh. Of _course_ Orion finds nuclear physics easy. He's a child-genius, knowing more than I did when I was eight years old; why wouldn't he find it easy?

Elon shyly walks closer to my brother. Finally mustering up the courage to speak, he says, "You know, I could help you study if you want, when Richard isn't around."

Orion smiles. He likes Elon as much as I do and respects his desire to learn. "Thanks, Elon. I might take you up on that offer sometime."

Elon flushes with pride.

"I just wanted to see you before the Reaping." I say and Orion looks up again, for he had just gone back to studying. His face switches to one of surprise; I have no doubt that he hasn't been outside all day so hasn't seen all the people waiting and trying to kill time for the event.

"Oh. That's today?" He stands up. For a moment he looks like he is about to hug me, so I move towards him with the intention of returning it. But he walks past me suddenly and grabs a book from a pile behind me. When he turns around to see my face, he isn't disappointed; my frustration at being able to be fooled so easily is evident and he giggles gleefully. "Well, I don't know what to say but good luck, I guess." He says and returns to studying his books, still giggling.

But honestly, I'm glad that he is managing to laugh, even on a day like today, so I don't stay angry for long. It takes a lot to make me truly angry; it takes a lot more to make me angry with my own family. "See you later, Elon!"

"When you come back, don't interrupt me again, okay?"

"I think he should have given you a more sincere goodbye, at least." Says Elon, once we are again on the path to the Justice Building. He keeps looking back, as though he expects my brother to come running out to atone.

"That's the most genuine he can be, especially in a situation like this." The closer we get to the Building, the more hopeless looking faces I see and the more parents I witness trying to calm down their distressed kids, some only twelve. My parents are at work; they can't witness the Reaping this year. At least they don't have to see all the other parents out of their minds with worry. In District Five, having volunteers is a rarity, so if you're reaped, that's it. And with most people – including me – having little or no experience with weapons, if your name is called, you are handed a death sentence. Everyone knows that. That's why the atmosphere is so tense on Reaping Day.

"And besides," I add, as we join the queue to register, "He's only young. He probably doesn't understand the cost of the Games. He might just view it as natural. I know I do."

"Or," Elon says, quietly, "That might just be his way of coping with it all."

I can't conceal my surprise at this suggestion, but say no more.

When I get to the front of the cue, a Peacekeeper demands me to present my finger. I do so. He produces a huge needle, ones that would most definitely scare sheltered kids from District One, and takes my blood. A sound signifying my acceptance as a citizen of District Five comes from the device connected to the instrument and he mutters for me to advance.

Unsurprisingly, the entire pool of potential tributes is silent, as though we are already mourning the death of the tributes about to be reaped. To people unfamiliar with the way we live, this would shock and disturb them for sure, but for Elon and I our feelings are only associated with what I can only call detachment. We feel numb when go to separate; or at least, I do. When looking at Elon as we say goodbye, I cannot help but notice how his eye dart around skittishly and he wrings his hands ever so slightly; he must be as nervous as the others. I can't blame him. Who wouldn't be nervous in the face of possible death?

I open my mouth to speak, but he gets there first. Tears spring to his eyes but he immediately brushes them away right after they surface. "I really hope you don't get reaped, Richard. And don't say you won't because you don't know that. I don't care if I get reaped, as long as it isn't you."

I know I can't say anything to console him, because he is right. I clasp his shoulder as I say, "Thanks, Elon. I really mean that."

Tears fill his eyes again and he turns away to enter the fourteen year old's section; he stands out of my sight; he can't bear to look at me again.

I stand in my place. One of the boys next to me is already crying so hard and so loud it makes the others too uncomfortable or too upset to say anything to him and so they leave him alone. He sits on the floor weeping and shaking; his strength as clearly left his body; fear has rendered him incapable of standing up. I know him; he works at Coriolanus 9, the solar power plant Orion has an internship at and has eight brothers and sisters. His family are poor and sickly often; so is he, it seems. His tiny body is so thin that the shirt he wears hangs like a bag on him.

On first sight, it may not be noticeable that he is participating in a small act of defiance; but he is. We are not allowed to sit during the Reaping; we are ordered to always stand as a sign of respect for the Capitol. Although he might not be a rebel – he seems too frail for that – District Five is one of the most unforgiving districts when it comes to such a viewpoint. Peacekeepers begin to stroll up the aisle. The likelihood is that they'll see him and subject him to a public flogging for dishonouring the Capitol if he is lucky enough to be safe from the Reaping.

I decide that a fate like that isn't deserved by anyone and I offer my hand out to him. First he refuses. "You need to get up, or the Peacekeepers will see you." I say, firmly but kindly, and he soon understands. I don't have to use much strength to pull him upright and he is still whimpering. He doesn't look like he can stand on his own, so I keep hold of him gently, trying to calm him down without making any promises I wouldn't be able to keep.

I don't tell him that he won't be reaped, for instance.

The Mayor makes his annual speech, a strange man who never likes to appear in public. Much like my father, public appearance makes him retreat into himself like a snail and it is a struggle for him to get out the words. He talks about how wonderful District Five is and, though sugar-coating it all and disguising it with praises, he in a nutshell says how we should just accept our current situation and accept that this day has to occur in order to achieve piece. Sceptical as I am about this, I don't mutter under my breath like some people do.

The district escort is up. You can tell she's an older woman who has tried in vain to conceal her age with vast amounts of plastic surgery, for when she talks, her mouth hardly moves and when she smiles, it is more like a grimace. She looks like she doesn't want to be here and looks at the crowd of kids as though we are dirt and that she is far more superior to us. If I remember correctly, she used to mentor District One, until she was "demoted". Perhaps she is still bitter.

Unlike previous years, she plays the video about the rebellion first before even introducing herself. She rolls her eyes and yawns dramatically, and I watch her instead of the video. I know all about the rebellion, so that kind of stuff doesn't really interest me anymore. The more I look at the escort, the more I determine how much I dislike her. _She's just wonderful._ I think, and shudder as she powders her face right in front of us.

"Oh. Is it over already?" Her voice is in monotonous after the video ends. She's not acting as cheerful as she should, especially in front of the camera. I despair as I realise that it must be because she wants whoever is in charge of allocating the escorts to see how unhappy she is with her current role. "Right. Well hello District…Five. I'm Estoni Kitciao. You might recognise me, for I mentored District One for _six years in a row_." She scowls, as though she blames us for her misfortunes. "I am certain that this district will be as welcoming as my previous one." She waits for some evidence to support her claim. Of course, it is still silent and she turns red from embarrassment. She forces a smile and walks over to the girl's reaping bowl to pick the reaped tribute.

"Well then, let's pick our lucky girl from District Five!"

It's all a blur after that; the girl reaped is no one I know and, like every year, we all feel incredibly sorry for her. There is nothing new; the district escort, Estoni, simply taps her on the head once and then wipes her hand on her dress as though the reaped girl is vermin. She moves on to the boy's bowl and doesn't even bother with the suspense. She just chooses one and calls out the name.

"And our wonderful, handsome male tribute this year is Richard Musk! Come on up here, quickly now, I haven't got all day you know."

Someone cries out – the cry sounds like it comes from Elon. But he doesn't volunteer to take my place and for that I am glad. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if he did. Although I always thought it possible, no amount of preparation could be sufficient enough for this situation. The sea of kids part automatically to let me through and I don't even realise I'm walking up to the stage. My vision blurs, my heart feels like it could leap from its chest but I try to keep my face utterly calm.

Estoni congratulates me. My good friend, one of my best friends, stands somewhere in the crowd with tears streaming down his face and looking absolutely wretched. And for the first time in my life. I feel angry.

Yes it had to happen, but why to me? Why must this cause pain to the people I love the most?

As the escort continues to address the camera I reach only one conclusion; I must make it back here. If not for myself, then for my parents. For my brother. For Elon. And I will have to do everything I can to make that possible.

 _ **Baize Fustain, District Eight Male. Fourteen Years Old.**_

"Baize, get up! You need to get ready or you'll be late!"

With a moan, I reluctantly roll out of bed, falling onto the floor with a loud thud. After I fall, I am immediately more awake. Being awake means being aware what day it is and being aware what day it is means being aware of the _fear_ that attacks from the expectations of the inevitable _._ I realise that it's Reaping Day and almost instantly dread prevails over any other emotion; I don't want to leave my room. I consider it; what is the better option out of not going to the Reaping and getting punished for it or potentially being selected for some twisted death match? Neither of them sound appealing, but the former sounds way more like the lesser of two evils. So I get back in bed, pulling the dirty sheets over my head and wishing for everything to go away.

The wait for mother to come bursting in is so, so painful. The window to the right of my bed is open, so I can faintly hear the chatter from outside. I can also hear the sound of my own heartbeat loud in my ears. It's maddening; I pull the covers tighter over my head in an attempt to get some peace.

Not many people know how hard it is to suddenly be happy with your life and then suddenly be reminded that what you thought was happy actually wasn't at all, and that you were only living a life full of death, of constriction, of pain. People have no idea how much I have tried to be less of a freak. It's gotten to the point where I have almost accepted all my many abnormalities and given up on ever having a normal life, with normal friendships and a normal family.

I shake, as though I know what is coming. Sure enough, I hear the door fling open, and before I know it my mother is tugging on the bedsheets.

I screech as she tries to comprehend, out loud, my behaviour. I hold on to my protective blanket for dear life until she manages, after several minutes of a tug-of-war, to wrench it from me. I am completely broken down at this point. How I must look to her at this moment must be frightening but I feel so controlled by fear that I don't know anything or care about anything. All I know is that I do not want to go to the Reaping.

My mother hesitates; she doesn't know how to approach this frail boy, with his back pressed up against the wall and wishing to retreat even farther backwards, and trembling like a leaf. "Please don't make me go…" I mumble, more to myself than to her. "Please don't make me go, Please don't make me go…"

Had I the opportunity, I would feel sorry for my poor mother. Being at work almost every day, her son, through no fault of her own – is like a stranger to her now. I know she loves me – I am lucky that I have a mother who loves her child – but her attempts at consolation can never be successful, because we have never had the chance to bond as much as we should. Even when not working she is too stressed to talk to her daughter and son. She will never know how to deal with me.

"Baize…" She tries to adopt a soft voice that is probably intended to be soothing, but to my ears it sounds only condescending. I can't help but think how she has to be mocking me; that she doesn't understand. "You have to go darling, you have to go. How about we come down stairs and have a nice cup of coffee, okay?"

We are hardly ever given the luxury of having a cup of coffee. It is always saved for special occasions as money is extremely scarce. But I can't think about the benefit of this offer. I can't. I push the hand that has rested on my knee away and scream and cry as loud as I can, while feeling at the same time ashamed of my actions but unable to stop them, and thinking only of the worst. _What if I get reaped? No, not if. I WILL get reaped. I'll get reaped and then I'll die and then my family will be heartbroken. I'll be responsible for that. Ruined-Ruined- Everything will be ruined because of today. I can't go. Don't make me go. Please don't make me go._

My mother grows increasingly frustrated and attempting to understand quickly turns into anger. She seizes my forearm and drags me from my sprawled out position. Not quite knowing what I am doing, I claw at her to try and get me to stop. Fear turns into my own anger and I, using all my strength, try to get her off me. Mother releases her grip on me in shock and I make a beeline for the door, only to be stopped by my father. He had heard the commotion and had run upstairs with my sister, who stares at me like I'm some sort of rabid animal.

"Stop staring at me!" I scream at her. The unnecessary anger spooks her; she steps back a little. Fear of judgement makes things worse; my dad keeps on steady grip on my arms and asks the women to leave. He knows that they are not helping.

My eyes follow them, wide and panicked, until they are out of sight. My father tries to soothe me in a tone that sounds way less like he is addressing someone inferior to him. "Sit down and take some deep breaths, champ. Then we can talk. Take as much time as you want. There you go."

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I battle against my instinctual thoughts of self-degradation and paranoia. I do exactly as he says – breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. I feel my chest become less constricted, hear my breathing become less shallow, and see how my father supportively sits at a distance from me but not too far away. I can feel his support, but he gives me the space I need to calm down. I look out the window; see the sun shining and fear disappears almost as quickly as it came.

I bury my face in my hands. "I'm sorry. I – I don't know what just happened. I couldn't control it. I-" I break off and bite my lip. I feel my father move slightly closer to me and put an arm around me. He can touch me now, it's safe. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong with you, Baize." I raise my head face him. His eyes are not interrogating like most, but kind. He makes eye contact to show he is genuine and to make me listen. He's the kind of person you have complete confidence in, my father is. You want to believe that everything he says is truthful. He is the most wise man I know. "You have every right to be scared. Heck, I would be scared, too. But you will be _fine._ You're _safe._ You have to trust me. Do you trust me, Baize?"

I nod, no hesitation necessary. "I do, dad."

He smiles warmly and squeezes my shoulder lightly. "Then you have absolutely _nothing_ to worry about! As long as I'm here, nothing bad will ever happen to you."

"Do you promise?"

My dad hesitates; I see him hesitate before he tries to smile again. "I promise, son." He stands up and holds out his hand. "Are you ready to go?" He must see my surprise, for he laughs. The sound of his laughter makes me smile, for I know that he wouldn't ever laugh at me. "What, you thought you'd have to go alone? No way. I'm coming with you. Sorry; you're just going to have to look uncool."

Relief. My mood instantly changes. My hopes lift; my dad is my good luck charm and if he is coming to watch the Reaping, then that is a really, really good sign. And I trust my dad when he says that everything will be ok. My dad is never wrong.

So we descend and I even hug mother and Saye. We say goodbye to each other and, at that moment at least, we appear like a normal, happy family, but as I shut the door behind us I don't miss their perturbed glances at one another.

I live in a district where the sun very rarely shines. So it's no surprise today is just as dreary as normal. Quite apt I guess, for today, and fitting the looks on kid's faces as they trudge mechanically to the Reaping. I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders and I walk with a slight spring in my step. _I_ have good luck; _they_ do not. Some walk with their parents too, sure, but I doubt that they are half as cool as my dad is. I laugh and talk about nonsense with him for half an hour, until I spot Nomex waiting in the queue for registration.

"Go see him. I'll see you afterwards." My dad says, hugs me, kisses me on the head. "I love you."

I grin, not thinking anything of it, and run over to my best friend, who has spotted me too and waves at me enthusiastically.

Nomex, being way more confident than I am, has been talking to some other friends. However, we have been friends for years and he constantly tells me that I am his best friend, often having to stress it a number of times before I believe him. So he says goodbye to them and chats eagerly to me, asks me how I am feeling, what I've been up to today.

"Not much. I slept, though."

I hate having my blood taken, it's painful and the very sight of blood reminds me of death and so frightens me to quite an extent. When the Peacekeeper tries to take my blood, then, for registration, she has to hold my wrist so hard that I'm sure that bruises will suddenly appear the next day. Nomex comments on how well I handled it and I feel a swell of pride, for I believe I handled it well also, which is a first. I think about why, coming to the conclusion that my dad's presence is already giving me strength and good luck.

Our Justice Building is small, old and falling to pieces. It doesn't stand out on any other day apart from Reaping Day, because every inch of it is covered with gold and red flags and symbols and signs of patriotism. The school children are forced to make such items in preparation for today; it is seen as a great honour to get your creation chosen. I say goodbye to Nomex absentmindedly and he retires to the fifteen year old section. I make my way to where I'm supposed to be, looking around for a long time before I see kids who I recognise and are my own age. Everything is ready. The Mayor and the district escort and two previous victors from District Eight comment on the designs of the flags, etc.

We have three alive victors in our district, and it is the third, and most recent one, everyone has their attention on. Rosetta Thern; she won last year. We are remember _her_ journey. We all thought she was normal, that's how she appeared to the public eye previous to the Games. But she is terrifying. I shudder as she glares at the crowd of kids, looking as though she would murder if she were allowed to. The other victors and the Mayor ignore her completely, sometimes stealing worried glances in her direction; the district escort, however, tries to engage in a conversation many times. She is denied every opportunity.

The Mayor, Otto Thern, Rosetta's uncle, makes his speech, which goes by quickly. Everyone can see how uncomfortable he is feeling with his devilish niece sitting just behind him, never taking her eyes from him. A couple of people laugh at the sight of his plump face growing more red by the second and I can't help but feel sorry for the guy. I know how it feels, to have people laugh at you. He seems extremely relieved as he finishes his speech and sits down, exhausted. Someone offers him some water, which he takes, breathing heavily. Rosetta, though, isn't fazed or impressed.

The escort introduces herself, the video of Panem's history plays; everything is going by in a blur. I wonder where my dad is standing and smile to myself, although I have not a clue why. I feel my dad's strength and so have no need to feel afraid. "'You're safe.'" That's what he told me, and he promised it, too. So there is no need for fear or paranoia. I feel myself starting to truly believe his words.

"Well well, District Eight!" The district escort stands too close to the microphone. As a result, her voice is unbearably loud. Her appearance, I regret to admit, is grating too. She wears her lilac hair in a ponytail that falls all the way down to her shoes, so she needs two assistants to pick it up for her every time she strides across the stage. She steps on it often and trips a number of times. "I'm sure we will get another _stunning_ victor from my favourite district this year, just like Miss Thern! So good luck and let's pick out tributes!"

We're all confused when we find that Rosetta has suddenly changed her demeanour completely. She now beams at the pool of kids and the camera, waving energetically and showing traits associated with her persona prior to the Games.

The female tribute is reaped and soon the district escort stumbles over to the male bowl.

"And our male tribute is… Baize Fustain!"

People would have, perhaps, expected me to collapse to the floor in a sobbing heap, unable to be reconciled and having to be dragged up to the stage by a pair of Peacekeepers. But right now, I feel nothing. Nothing at all. I merely realise, with a heavier heart, that my dad has broken his promise. All the energy and hope I had before has left my body; everything around me sounds like it's coming from underwater and I look around in a daze. Someone calls out but the sound is too muffled for me to work out whom. I'm disorientated and numb, as though I am dreaming. I force my legs to carry me to the escort and the victors and the Mayor. The escort is beaming at me and holds out her hand. Her smile is too wide; she's like a puppet. And yet I feel compelled to obey when she asks me to repeat my name.

Everything begins to sway from left to right and I lose my balance. I stumble right into Rosetta Thern, who has taken her place by my side. I feel her arms catch me but when I look up I see her snarl at me and push me away. I stumble forwards and try to keep still. Everything's blurry and my ears start ringing. The escort doesn't notice until she says goodbye to the crowd and ushers us inside.

I can't believe what has just happened.

As soon as we are inside the Justice Building, my spots appear in front of my eyes, the ringing gets louder and louder and it's not long before everything cuts to total darkness.

 **Hello everyone! BittersweetSympathy here.**

 **First of course, I am so, so sorry for the (incredibly) late update. I basically lost all my work and then life got in the way. But I really hope this was worth the wait.**

 **I would like to say a BIG thank you to those who have not given up on this story – honourable mention to dz26, who I can't thank enough for their continued support.**

 **Please leave a review; let me know what you thought of these tributes! Who do you like, who do not like, and why?** **Applications are still open,** **so to new readers: hello! I hope you stay to enjoy the ride, and why don't you submit? There are still plenty of slots open, so give it a go!**

 **I also have a poll open on my profile, so please check it out.**

 **Thank you again, and I'll see you soon!**

 **Sympathy.**


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